


Ophelia

by vipertooths



Series: MCU: Steve/Bucky [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Fluff, Gap Filler, Happy Ending, Healing, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pt 1:, Pt 2:, Requited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipertooths/pseuds/vipertooths
Summary: "You got anyone special in your life, Barnes?""Yeah, you could say that.""What's her name then?"God, he walked right into that one. He pulls out a random name. "Ophelia."A two part story where the first part covers the Captain America movies from Bucky's POV and the second part covers him coming out of cryo to live with Team Cap, heal, and learn that not all stories end in tragedy.





	Ophelia

**Author's Note:**

> This is told in short bursts, but should be easy to follow if you've watched all three films. If you're here, I'm assuming you have. For some background information before you go in: Bucky does send letters to Steve, he just burns the ones that are too revealing/personal, and I headcanon that Steve decided to keep it to himself that he'd been enlisted so as not to make Bucky worry.

****Bucky knew it’d be hard, being away from Steve, but nothing could've prepared him for the real deal. It's one thing to be sleeping on the hard ground, feet sore from his boots, grit under his nails, and another to be doing it without Steve. Without knowing if Steve is okay or bleeding out in some back alley, without the reassurance that they’ll see each other again soon, if ever. Still a fresh faced babe in the war and already feeling like there’s a hole in his chest. He can't tell if it's romantic or pathetic. Maybe a bit of both.

He stares down at the blank paper in front of him and even though he has a million thoughts pouring through his head, he can't think of a damned thing to write.

"Family or lover?"

Bucky looks up to see Sergeant William Ripley smiling at him. They haven't had much interaction, but he's seemed like a decent enough guy. "What?"

"Only have that hard of a time writing if it's to family or your gal." He doesn't give Bucky time to answer before he continues. "You got anyone special in your life, Barnes?"

Steve's smiling face comes to mind and he looks back at his paper. "Yeah, you could say that."

"What's her name then?"

God, he walked right into that one. He pulls out a random name. "Ophelia."

"Good luck," Ripley says, patting him on the shoulder, and then strolls away.

Bucky sighs and puts his pen to the paper.

_Hey, Stevie_

***

There's blood stains on Bucky's hands that won't come off and his limbs feel shaky. He tries to breathe deep, but the air won't come right. When he stumbles into his tent, he knows he should be glad he’s not sleeping in a hole tonight, but it’s so hard to feel a damn thing that's not exhaustion. Nobody likes to talk about what war does to people, not just on the outside, but how it messes with their heads. God damn, he’s afraid if he ever gets back home, he might break Steve on accident the next time he’s frightened.

Sitting down, he grabs the small box of his personal effects and opens it. He plucks out the sketches on top and unfolds them. One of them is a self-portrait Steve drew after Bucky asked. _Believe it or not, I miss seeing your punk face every day_ , he'd written. Something like that might've set off a few alarm bells with someone else. What kinda guy asks another guy for a picture of him? Steve didn't seem to think twice about it.

Running a finger over the corner of the paper, Bucky realizes how much easier breathing seems now. It’s always been like that with Steve, always will be. Even when he’s being a pain in the ass, he makes life easier to live. The world’s a better place with him in it.

Bucky takes out a blank piece of paper and writes a letter.

He burns it when he’s done.

***

“Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes open and his rank and serial number die on his lips. _It’s not real._ _He’s not real. He’s not here._ The only things in this room are himself and his captors.

“Oh my god.”

He looks over to see Steve’s face and it finally clicks that his straps have been broken. “Is- Is that-”

“It’s me. It’s Steve.”

“Steve.” Bucky smiles, even though he’s at half a mind to think he’s finally lost it.

“Come on.”

“Steve,” he says again, and it’s grounding. Steve’s here. He’s alive, real under Bucky’s hands. And big. When did he get so big?

Steve cups the back of his neck for a split second and then drops it, like he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do with his hands. “I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were smaller.”

***

Bucky looks over his shoulder to where Steve’s back is pressed against his and raises an eyebrow. “What're you doing?”

“What's it look like? Your teeth are chattering so hard, they're keeping me up.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he’s glad for the extra warmth. “Now you know how I felt every winter back in Brooklyn.”

Steve gives him a half hearted shove with his shoulder and laughs. “Jerk.”

It’s still so cold he’s not sure he’ll ever get to sleep, but he does. Somehow, they all do.

***

It’s ridiculous, really, that Steve had to be genetically modified before anyone would bat an eyelash at him. Bucky’s _proud_ , don't get him wrong; he’s proud that his best friend is finally getting the recognition he deserves, but it shouldn't have been like this. It shouldn't have taken so long for people to see what a great guy he is.

Sighing, he leans against a tree and looks up at the leaves. He thinks of the time before the war, back when Steve was more likely to die of a common sickness than a bullet through the head. Doesn't seem Bucky’ll ever get the chance to stop worrying about him.

“Something on your mind?”

Bucky glances sideways and sees Steve, but nobody else. “What happened to the fellas you were talkin’ to?”

“Not really my crowd.”

When he raises his eyebrows, Steve laughs and shoves him playfully, though still strong enough to make him stumble.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Excuse me, I just didn't know Steve Rogers _had_ a crowd.”

“Just ‘cause it’s small, doesn't mean I don't have one.”

Bucky hums. “And who is in this small crowd of yours?”

“Just you.”

It catches him off guard. He looks over to see the soft look on Steve’s face and it warms him to the bone. “You liftin’ lines from those cheesy novels you read again?”

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

***

“That doesn't look anything like him,” Bucky says, leaning down and resting an arm on Steve’s shoulder.

Gabe frowns up at him. “I thought you were good at this, Rogers.”

“He’s just pulling your leg. I’ve barely started.”

“Y’know, if you turn it, it almost looks like-” He grabs Steve’s hand and makes him tilt the pad.

“Huh. I see what you mean.”

“How come you're drawing Gabe anyway when you could be drawing me?”

Steve glances at him and smiles. “I've already drawn you. Multiple times.”

Bucky is about to say something about how practice makes perfect, but he catches the look Gabe’s sending their way. Resisting the urge to clear his throat, he lets go of Steve’s hand and stands up.

“Ophelia got any special talents?” Gabe asks, and Bucky can feel ice in his veins. The way Gabe’s looking, it’s almost like he _knows_ , but he can't. Bucky’s been so careful.

“Ophelia?” Steve asks, eyes focused on his work.

Gabe raises his eyebrows. “Barnes’ girl?”

Steve’s pencil stroke stutters against the paper and Bucky takes a calming breath. “Another girl? When’d you find the time, Buck?”

“He met her before he enlisted,” Dum Dum says, joining the conversation. “Least that’s what he says. Doesn't say much else.”

“And I’m not about to start now,” Bucky says, making a conscious effort to keep his body relaxed. “Good luck with makin’ a decent picture outta Gabe’s ugly mug, Steve.”

He walks away, Gabe’s cursing and the others’ laughter at his back.

***

 _I know your ma was always telling you that if you're good, really good, things would work out in the end, that karma always pays her dues. But you've seen enough_ good _men go down that you should know by now: heroes and happiness don’t go hand in hand. For once, I want you to forget about the rest of the world, close the curtains, lock the door, and just lay with me. Just try to remember what safety feels like._

_Today, give me this. Give me the chance to make you laugh. Give me a moment to stop worrying about fucking tragedy. I'll be damned to let you turn into another sad story, Rogers. If you wanna make the world a better place, you keep on living. Promise me that, won't you? Promise me you'll live. If something ever happened to you, I think you'd tear the heart right out of my chest. I think you'd take me with you. I think I'd want you to._

It's almost a ritual at this point. Get worked up. Write a letter. Destroy it. Like he’s burning away all the pent up tension from feeling things he knows he shouldn't be feeling.

The paper turns to ash. He swears he can taste it on his tongue.

***

“It’s almost painful to watch,” the barman says, and Bucky smiles wider. It’s a comfort to know that Steve Rogers still doesn't know how to talk to dames, even though they're practically throwing themselves at him now.

He gets that doe-eyed look about him shortly before he excuses himself from his company. Bucky shakes his head and tries to contain his grin. “You're really something, Rogers.”

Steve sits on the stool next to him and orders a drink. “Is this how you normally feel?”

“I've gotta hunch that how you feel about chatting up girls and how I feel about it are two very different things.”

Steve takes a long drink, says, “Yeah, I don't doubt it.”

***

Peggy rests a small hand on Steve’s arm and Bucky feels his stomach churn. It was different with the others, when there was nothing real there, nothing staying. It scares him that they could really be something. Bucky had even tried to pick her up himself as a last ditch effort to keep her from Steve. It was selfish, he knows, but it didn't work anyway. God knows Steve deserves to have a good girl on his arm and Peggy doesn't seem half bad herself, but he can't stop the ache in his chest at the sight of them.

When she finally leaves, Steve turns to him with a smile, all soft and content. He loves it as much as he hates it, so he swallows his feelings and says, “So, you seem pretty serious about her.”

Steve’s smile doesn't drop. “Yeah. I don't know, Buck, I think I could be happy with her.”

The words sit like steel in his gut and he forces himself to smile. It feels wrong, he knows it’s got to look wrong, but Steve doesn't notice. “If you think so, you go for it. Don't let her slip outta your hands.”

Steve nods and claps him on the shoulder. He just wants to get drunk and forget the world for awhile.

***

He’s never known desperation like this, the kind that draws off ice cold terror and the will to stay alive. He thought he did, back when he was a prisoner of war, but it’s got nothing on this, biting wind on his face, death clawing at his feet. Steve’s hand was close, so close, and still too far.

To use the term weightlessness to describe falling seems completely inadequate. He can feel it all around him, pulling him down. He feels it in his stomach. He feels it in every limb. That's all he can register really. The weight, the desperation, the terror, the open sky where Steve just was. And then nothing.

***

He’s heading back from his mission when he sees a life-sized cutout of a man in a red, white, and blue uniform. The man looks familiar. He can feel something in the back of his mind trying and failing to make a connection. A voice plays over a loudspeaker. “It's our grand opening, folks. Come inside to learn all about Captain America and his Howling Commandos. Free for today only.”

“Do you think they’ll have much on Bucky Barnes?” a girl says as he walks by and strange images begin to form in the soldier’s head. He sees the man in uniform, Captain America, but smaller. He’s there too, but different. Pain flares in his temples and he keeps moving. Something’s not right. He needs to get back to base.

***

“But I knew him.” Four simple words, but they feel like they're taking root in his chest, wrapping around his ribs. He knew him. He thinks he knew him. It hurts, trying to remember. This is why he’s not allowed to. Something is wrong with him. It’s easier to let them fix it.

***

He freezes, fist in the air. No. No. Steve. He knows him. He knows him. He hurt him. _Steve_.

The walls quake and the floor drops out from beneath them. On instinct, he grabs at a piece of metal, watches as Steve falls into the water below. A second later, he follows. It's not even a decision really. Even with his head fucked up, he still understands that Steve’s the most important person in the world.

He pulls him to land and lets go. He can't stay. The things he’s done, there’s no forgiving that. It’s dangerous, for him, for Steve, for everyone.

He walks.

***

The journals help keep his thoughts in order. Sometimes the memories come in parts, disjointed or hazy. Sometimes he only gets impressions. Other times they're so vivid and clear that he wonders how they ever could've been taken from him to begin with, how he could've ever forgotten.

He clips a photo of Steve to one of the pages one day and continues to relocate it to each new journal he buys. He sees it almost every day, and self-hatred roils inside him at the damage he’s done, to Steve as well as other innocent people. All of his missions are there in his head, in perfect clarity. They never blocked those memories, never had reason to, just stopped him from feeling any type of way toward them. It makes him sick, and he swears to himself he’ll tear every HYDRA base down with his own bare hands.

After some research, he finds there are apparently digital applications meant for maintaining a healthy brain, but he won't buy a phone. It's not worth the risk.

***

Bucky knows there are people looking for him. He knows one of those people is Steve. And it hurts. It hurts that he has to run. It hurts to know he’s hurting Steve. If he thinks on it for too long, he misses his old life fiercely, and that's really not going to help anything, so he tries not to think on it. He’s filled up a few notebooks now with memories and he keeps them in a bag. It's the only thing he brings everywhere with him. There’s a short list of things he’s terrified of losing: his memories, his autonomy, and Steve. His hold on the first is fragile, the second precarious, and the third nonexistent.

He writes a letter in his notebook, tears it out, and hesitates. If he loses himself again, all he has is what he’s written. Carefully, he tucks it between the last page and the back cover.

***

"Wow, mister, that's a cool arm you got."  
  
Bucky looks for the source of the voice and finds a boy standing to his left, hand grasped firmly by his mother. She's wearing an apologetic smile, like she's sorry that her son has interrupted him to point out his prosthetic arm.

"You think so?"

When the boy nods, he crouches down, holding his left arm out and curling his fingers into a fist and back out one by one. The kid looks on in wonder, eyes wide and bright.

"Is it strong?"

"Very strong," Bucky answers honestly.

"Man, I wish my arm was like that. Can I touch it?"

"Nick," his mother admonishes, "that's rude. Let's leave the nice man alone now, okay?"

"Alright," the kid says, voice thick with disappointment. "I bet you could really beat up a lot of bad guys with that arm though. So cool."

The woman rolls her eyes fondly. "I'm sorry. He's a little obsessed with superheroes right now."

Bucky stands and smiles at them both. "There's worse things to be obsessed with."

She laughs and agrees with him before they say their goodbyes and continue down the street. On the back of the kid's jacket is a picture of Steve in one of his older Captain America uniforms with his shield in front of him. A warm feeling of pride bubbles up inside of him. Steve had always been an inspiration to Bucky, even when they were kids. His bravery, his tenacity, his commitment to doing what he believed was right, they were all things Bucky had always admired in him.

It occurs to him suddenly that he has no right to this warmth anymore, to be here smiling when for so long he was one of the bad guys the kid was referring to, as if he wasn't a weapon created to maim and kill. His expression falls blank. He can never right his wrongs, never give back the lives he'd taken, but he can at least stop some of the horrors yet to come.

This is all he can do.

He will have to make peace with that.

***

The place is small, a shabby apartment in an illy cared for complex, sparsely furnished. It wasn't a decision he made lightly; he hadn't dared stay anywhere for too long, but he needed something slightly more permanent to stay than seedy hotel rooms and rooftops and he can still easily escape and be lost in the crowd here if he needs to. It definitely wasn’t the best or homiest of places to live, but it would do. It could be worse. It can _always_ be worse.

He looks around the mostly empty space after he’s finished blocking off the windows with newspaper and catalogues what he’ll need to buy before he goes back out.

It takes a few trips, but he manages to compile a small stock of food, cookware, and some dishes, as well as a new bedroll and two more empty journals.

If he hoped having a more permanent place would help him sleep, he'd have been a fool. He barely sleeps at all, any sound seemingly out of the ordinary waking him and putting him on edge. On the nights he manages to sleep for more than a few hours, he wakes with screams in his ears and blood on his hands. The thoughts come and come unbidden and it's all he can do to weather them.

He forces himself to write down the bad memories along with the good ones. He doesn't want to forget anything anymore.

After a while, he learns that having something to occupy his hands and distract him helps with the unwanted thoughts and cooking becomes his favorite pastime. Maybe it's stupid, but he likes to know that he can still make things instead of just destroying them, that he can hold something as soft as a peach and not bruise it. He finds quickly that he isn't the best at creating his own recipes and picks up a cookbook from a flea market, working his way from the beginning.

On the third week, he finds a recipe for a shepherd's pie, similar to one he'd made with Steve so many years ago. The memory rolls over him like a warm blanket.

_"How's it looking?" Steve asks, staring around Bucky at the pot of ingredients, holding a bowl of cooked potatoes in his arms._

_"It'll look better once you've got those mashed up and ready to spread on top," Bucky quips, adding some salt into the pot._

_Steve huffs good naturedly and relocates to the table to begin mashing the potatoes. Bucky glances over his shoulder and almost laughs at the look of concentration on his friend's face. Only Steve could make a task like that look like it needs a great deal of care to perform. He grunts as he deals with a particularly obstinate potato and Bucky grins, turning his back to the stove before he gets a crick in his neck._

_"Don't let it get the best of you, pal."_

_Steve looks up with a small and amused smile of his own. "Don't worry about me. I got him on the ropes."_

Bucky stares at the recipe and lets the longing wash over him for a moment. A knock on the door startles him and he has a knife in his hand in the next second. He moves warily for the door and looks out of the peephole to see an old woman standing outside in the hallway, carrying a covered dish.

He opens the door halfway, keeping the knife out of sight. "Hello."

The old woman smiles and lifts the dish up. "Hello there, neighbor. I noticed you've been keeping to yourself since you moved in and thought maybe you could use a friend. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I baked a little bit of everything." She offers him the platter, which he's forced to take with his left arm. Her eyes flicker to the metal of his hand, but she says nothing.

"Thank you, ma'am," he says. "I would invite you in, but my house isn't really suitable for company right now."

The woman waves a hand through the air. "It's fine, dear. I live just across the hall there. You come tell me how you liked those sometime, alright? I'd be glad to make some more."

Bucky's muscles ease and he gives her a gentle smile. "Thank you again."

She nods and turns to go back to her own apartment and he closes the door. He curiously pulls the cloth back that's covering the food and is met with the sight of several sweets. Cookies, cakes, and pastries are piled high on the dish. He sets them down and goes back to the kitchen counter where he'd left the cookbook. He decides to skip the shepherd's pie and flips the page. Later that night, filled with soup and drowsiness tugging on his eyelids, he takes a cookie from the dish. It unnerves him to put anything in his mouth that he didn't make himself, but the lady had seemed harmless and kind. He takes a bite and waits for half an hour, but nothing happens. He finishes the cookie and covers the plate back up, then takes himself to get ready for bed, feeling for once that perhaps there isn't a catch or fallout to every good thing.

***

He doesn't have a routine per se. Routines are dangerous. But he does occasionally make it a point to visit Meredith once a week. It had taken him two weeks before he had returned her platter to her and a week after before he finally agreed to join her for tea and sandwiches. He learned that her son served in the military and that her grandson was currently enlisted.

"I could tell you'd seen war," she'd said to him.

"I'm not in the military," he answered. It was technically true.

Her smile was sad and she seemed to contemplate what to do with her hands before she pulled them into her lap. "That doesn't mean you haven't seen war. Battlefields are everywhere."

It's like she could look right through to the center of him and it made him antsy for the familiarity of it. He thanked her and made an excuse to leave shortly after that.

Now, he sits at her table and has no wish to make an early escape. He makes sure he keeps out of view of the windows and that nobody is around when he enters. The last thing he wants is to pull this unsuspecting woman into danger, especially after all the kindness she's shown him.

"Would you like to share today?" she asks, placing sandwiches on the table between them. She asks every time he visits her, never pushing him when he declines having anything to share. She usually fills their time with stories from her own life or they sometimes sit in silence and just enjoy each other's company.

"I've been researching foods that can help with memory." He doesn't know exactly why he decided to share that piece of information, but she only nods.

"You let me know how they work."

He nods and takes two pieces of a quartered cucumber sandwich. "Thank you for the food."

She smiles and takes a piece for herself. "Such a polite boy. You're welcome."

It's quiet while they eat and he thinks of his journal, if there's anything of importance to write down today. He's roused from his thoughts when he reaches over to the plate to find it empty. Meredith laughs gently and stands with it.

"Would you like more?"

"No, that's alright, thank you."

She deposits the dish in the sink and returns to her seat, staring at him in the acute way he's grown accustomed to.

"Is there anyone else in your life?"

He keeps his face impassive, but the question barbs at his heart. "No."

She rests her chin on her hands. "Is there someone you wish was?"

He hesitates, unsure of how to answer; his wants contradict each other. She must pick something up from the hesitation because she clucks her tongue sadly.

"The one that got away, huh? Or maybe you're the one that got away." She looks distant for a second, then reaches out and lays her hand on his. "Don't you worry about it too much. Love has a funny way of working itself out."

***

Steve standing in the kitchen of his apartment is surreal. For a moment, he thinks he might be having a waking dream, but of course he isn't. His face is plastered over the newspapers and Steve has finally caught up to him.

"Understood," Steve says, the sound of his voice lodging Bucky's heart in his throat.

He turns his head quickly when he notices Bucky's presence and Bucky's eyes flick to the journal in his hand, wondering what he might've read.

He looks over Bucky from head to toe before letting out a breath. "Do you know me?"

It takes a moment to get his thoughts in order. "You're Steve. I read about you in a museum."

A voice speaks into Steve's earpiece, but it’s ignored. Something about Bucky's response clearly didn't sell it, but he had a slim hope that it would anyway.

Steve sets the journal on the counter and steps forward, warily enough to be approaching a wild animal. "I know you're nervous, and you have plenty of reason to be, but you're lying."

"I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore."

"They're entering the building," the voice says, and Steve glances to the window automatically.

"Well, the people who think you did are coming here now. And they're not planning on taking you alive."

Bucky didn't blame them. "That's smart. Good strategy." He shifted as he listened to the footsteps overhead, gaze trailing up to the ceiling.

"This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck."

He wants so bad to believe Steve's words, but he knows better than that. He begins pulling the glove from his hand. "It always ends in a fight."

"You pulled me from the river," Steve says, a last-ditch effort to reach him. "Why?"

"I don't know."

They lock eyes.

"Yes, you do."

***

Bucky’s heart stops when he sees the notebook. The man is clearly not from the United Nations.

“Longing,” he starts and Bucky wants to crawl out of his own skin. He knew he wasn’t free.

“No.”

“Rusted.”

“Stop.”

“Seventeen.”

Bucky’s fists clench and he can feel it already, the way the words are affecting him. “Stop!”

“Daybreak.”

Bucky screams and rips off his shackles. He has to get out now. He can’t do this again. He can’t let this happen.

“Furnace.”

He pounds on the glass. It’s hardly making a scratch.

“Nine. Benign. Homecoming.”

It’s too slow. He has to get out _now_.

“One. Freight car.”

The door flies off the containment unit.

Bucky is gone.

***

Bucky comes to in an unknown location, arm firmly jammed in a hydraulic press, his shoulder aching.

“Hey, Cap,” he hears, and Steve is in front of him in seconds, as well as his friend with the wings, Sam Wilson.

“Which Bucky am I talking to?”

“Your mom’s name was Sarah,” he supplies, then racks his brain for something only he would know. A small, amused chuckle escapes his lips. “You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.”

Steve’s expression softens. “Can’t read that in a museum.”

“Just like that, we’re supposed to be cool?” Sam says, and Bucky doesn’t blame him his distrust. He can’t even trust himself.

“What did I do?”

“Enough,” Steve says, not going into details. He probably means to spare Bucky the pain, not that it’ll help.

Bucky lets out a heavy breath. “Oh, God, I knew this would happen. Everything HYDRA put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the goddamn words.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know.” He wishes he had more to offer, something that would help.

“People are dead. The bombing, the setup… the doctor did all that just to get ten minutes with you. I need you to do better than, ‘I don’t know.’”

It’s a little harsh, but he knows Steve just wants to put a stop to the man. He tries to find any relevant information. “He wanted to know about Siberia. Where I was kept. He wanted to know exactly where.”

“Why would he need to know that?”

It was so clear now. He doesn’t know why he had to say it aloud for it to click. “Because I’m not the only Winter Soldier.”

Steve shakes his head slightly and walks forward, releasing him from the press. Bucky removes his arm and rotates it, but makes no move to stand. He rests against the metal, the coldness of it grounding him. Steve backs up, seeming to not want to push too much too fast, and leans on the wall, arms crossed.

"Who were they?"

"Their most elite death squad. More kills than anyone in HYDRA history. And that was before the serum."

"They all turn out like you?" Sam asks, and Bucky doesn't know if it's just a question or a veiled insult.

"Worse."

"The doctor," Steve says, "could he control them?"

Bucky remembers the revolt, the soldiers turning against the handlers. "Enough."

"Said he wanted to see an empire fall."

"With these guys, he could do it. They speak thirty languages, can hide in plain sight, infiltrate, assassinate, destabilize. They can take a whole country down in one night and you'd never see them coming."

Sam walks closer to Steve. It doesn't afford them any privacy, but perhaps the illusion of it. In any case, he makes it clear that Bucky isn't a part of this conversation. "This would have been a lot easier a week ago."

"If we call Tony," Steve starts, but Sam cuts him off.

"No, he won't believe us."

"Even if he did..."  
  
"Who knows if the Accords would let him help."  
  
Bucky can see the moment Steve realizes it. "We're on our own."

Sam gives a minute shrug. "Maybe not. I know a guy."

"Alright, I'm listening."

***

Bucky is jammed into the back of a tiny car, the air near palpable with tenseness. Sam doesn’t like him and Steve doesn't seem to know how to treat him right now. They aren't the same as before he fell from that train. There's a newness here, tragic circumstances and so many years of being apart stripping away at their easy familiarity.

"Did they take my journal?" He'd left it on the counter where Steve had set it down, no time to put it into his bag. His bag, of course, was confiscated, but at least he knew where it was and it had little chance of being thrown in the trash.

"They'll probably have a team sweep your apartment for anything of interest. Was it important to you?"

"Yes," he says, and leaves it at that. His thoughts go to Meredith and he wishes he had some way to contact her, to make sure she was alright and reassure her that he's fine. If she's seen the newspapers, she might not even care. It was foolish, to allow himself even the small pleasure of an old woman's company.

He shifts in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, and Sam's voice is ice when he says, "Your knee is in my back."

Bucky moves it silently, wondering just how long they'll be driving for.

"So, Sharon is...an agent of SHIELD?"

"Yeah. She's a good agent, and a friend." Bucky can see the side of Steve's mouth quirk up, but he looks sad. "She's Peggy's niece."

"Is Peggy..." he lets it trail off, knowing Steve will understand the question.

"She's gone."

"I'm sorry."

Steve takes a deep breath and Sam gives him a sympathetic look. He must know who Peggy is - was - then. Bucky can't help the slight bitterness he feels over that. Steve deserves to have people in his life who care about him and he can trust confiding in, but Bucky misses when he used to be Steve's right hand man, his best friend. The two of them till the end of the line. That's what he'd promised. It makes longing flare in his chest.

"Sharon's nice," Steve says, shaking off his grief like a good soldier ready to keep pushing through the battle. "I think you'll like her."

The rest of the ride is quiet and by the time they've reached their destination and Steve's gotten out of the car, Bucky's leg is beginning to cramp. He stares, annoyed, at the man in the passenger seat. "Can you move your seat up?"

"No."

Of course not. He slides himself to the left.

Outside, Steve and Sharon converse quietly between themselves and then Steve is leaning forward to meet her lips. It's not surprising that Steve's found someone, but it's worrying that it's Peggy's niece. He can't help but wonder how alike the two Carters are and if Steve is subconsciously projecting. He forces a smile for his friend when he catches his eye. He honestly does hope it works out, despite the ache in his heart. He hopes Steve finds someone to spend the rest of his life with and that they’re happy. It was never going to be Bucky; he came to terms with that a long time ago.

When Steve grabs their things and comes back to the car, Bucky raises his eyebrows. "You didn't say she was _that_ nice."

"Very funny," Steve says, rolling his eyes and getting them moving again.

"Seems you know her better than you let on."

"Actually, we haven't really spent much free time with each other. This is ... new."

That seems so unlike Steve that it makes him frown. He forces himself to remember, yet again, that they aren't the same as they used to be.

***

"We have the best medical facilities in the world," Bucky hears the king say somewhere over him. "There is no need to worry."

The searing pain in what was left of his arm was dulled and his mind is foggy. He doesn't like the feeling of it, the lack of control, but he is out before he can panic.

When he wakes up, his arm is neatly patched up, but still notably gone. His stomach roils and he lifts himself up, ignoring Steve's protests beside him. He stares at the place where his arm was and isn't sure what he should feel about it. His arm is _gone_ , but shouldn't he be glad for that? It was a weapon created by HYDRA. He should be happy to get rid of it. But it was still a part of him for so long, no matter where it came from.

"They said they'll be able to replace it," Steve says, and Bucky feels a mild sense of relief. He nods, then turns to look Steve over.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, don't worry about me."

Bucky manages to crack a small smile at that. "Been worrying about you since before you were born, Stevie."

Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and smiles back, looking relieved, but Bucky only lets himself enjoy it for a short time.

"I'm dangerous. I'm too dangerous like this." He looks at Steve, almost expecting him to argue, but he just clenches his jaw.

"We may be able to help with that," King T'Challa says from the doorway. It's strange that the man who was trying to kill him not so long ago is now the one helping him, but no stranger than anything else that's happened to him. "We can put you under cryogenic stasis until then."

The thought of going back under isn't Bucky's favorite idea, but he also knows it's the best for everyone. He agrees to T’challa’s offer.

“Thank you, for all of this.”

T’challa inclines his head. “I am glad to help.”

***

Bucky is sitting across from the chamber he's going to be in for the next indefinite period of time when Steve comes back from where he'd been conversing with the king.

"Sure about this?"

Bucky wants to say no, wants to be able to, but he can't.

"I can't trust my own mind." He flashes a humorless smile. "So, until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going under is the best thing. For everybody."

A lady approaches them, greeting them both in turn. "It is ready," she says, and Bucky slides off of the gurney.

Steve stares at him for a few seconds, eyes sad, before stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. The only thing he really registers is that it's the first hug he's had with Steve at this size. It's different, but not bad. It's still Steve.

They separate and he allows himself to be guided into the chamber. When he wakes up, things will be better. He wills himself to believe it as he closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew, I've actually been sitting on this for a while. I made a text post after Civil War came out which basically became the outline for this story (minus a few key points). You can find it [here](http://trashfam.tumblr.com/post/144770530688/), but be warned that it CONTAINS SPOILERS for the second part of this story.
> 
> I ended up abandoning the fic, but watching Thor: Ragnarok reminded me how much I love MCU, despite it's faults, and how much I missed Steve/Bucky and the team. A big thank you to [@izbelles](http://izbelles.tumblr.com/) for reading this as I write it and giving me that boost to keep going, [@crossroadswrite](http://crossroadswrite.tumblr.com) for word sprinting with me and assuring me I can get this done, and [@taeinator](http://taeinator.tumblr.com/) for her endless support of my writing forays and encouraging my dumb jokes.
> 
> I would love love love some feedback on this. I know it's kind of awful that part one ends with Bucky going under, but I promise part two will have lots more smiling and fun times and you'll understand why I chose to name the fic Ophelia even though it was barely touched upon in this part.
> 
> (For why I chose this name, I was inspired by [Ophelia by The Lumineers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTOC_q0NLTk), because it just screams Pining Bucky at me.)
> 
> ((You can totally come talk to me either [@jihopi](http://jihopi.tumblr.com/) or [@cptnkirk](http://cptnkirk.tumblr.com) if you want.))


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